


Watching

by fictorium



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby finally gets home from work... and manages to interrupt Andy at a most inopportune moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching

He doesn't call from the office; no point in starting another fight.

*

Toby opens the front door in noise-avoiding increments, praying silently that the unoiled hinges won't give him away. He's relieved that Andrea isn't waiting to ambush him, some days he thinks he'll find her there with a frying pan in her hand like all the cartoon strips warned him about.

The White House days are getting longer, not shorter. She's still seething at his careless mention of adoption, and Toby has yet to conjure an apology that won't reverse his original position. The cracks that have appeared since the pursuit of parenthood began are starting to seem more like fault-lines, and he can't find a solution for that while fighting off Republicans and churning out five speeches a day.

Considering his options, he sees the lamplight from the living room and decides that the bedroom might be safer. Shrugging off his jacket, Toby hears the faint strains of the music from just outside their bedroom door.

There's a faint scent of candles too, and if he's hearing correctly, that's Sade singing softly in there. His blood runs cold, wondering if he's finally being punished for his inattention, his skewed priorities.

Honestly? Toby wants to run, but then he hears what is definitely Andrea moaning and his hand is reaching for the door handle before he can stop himself.

The wave of relief when he discovers there's nobody in bed with his wife almost knocks him off his feet. Then there's the creeping flush of embarrassment as he realizes exactly what he's interrupting. The token lit candle on the drawers, the musical accompaniment, the sheets pulled back to reveal the gorgeous woman he married in a simple silk nightdress.

Sure, her clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor, and the dripping of the tap in the bathroom is still audible, but there's definitely an atmosphere. Something he's quite sure his presence is ruining.

With a fumbling attempt at an apology, he retreats back to the hallway, but freezes when she calls his name.

Expecting frustration, reprimands or simple rage, he reenters the bedroom and reverts to the default pose for naughty boys everywhere, a pointed stare at his own shoes.

"You can stay. If you want. But no touching."

He can't do much to hide his surprise, but the sudden surge in his groin confirms his mind's enthusiasm for her offer. Loosening his tie, he pulls the chair from the corner and positions himself in what would be considered a front row seat.

Andrea's smile is predatory, and he notes that her hands have remained in motion throughout his intrusion. He's captivated by the way she's rolling her nipple between finger and thumb, her breasts spilling free from the flimsy silk with ease. She licks her lips and the way she tilts her head back, exposing that slender neck is pushing his own arousal further by the second.

Then there's her right hand, the hand that signed their wedding certificate and slapped his cheek on their second date. That hand is currently at work between her thighs, and the way her fingers are glistening in the half-light only proves how adept she is at providing her own pleasure.

Of course, there's the primitive part of his brain that wants to cross the space between them in two short strides and claim her body for himself. Tonight, Toby would gladly keep trying to get her pregnant; tonight he'll do just about anything she asks.

The restraint required is only turning him on more though, and without conscious thought, he's soon palming his cock through the straining fabric of his trousers. He wonders, briefly, if he should ask her permission. As though Andrea read his mind, she nods quite deliberately and he doesn't hesitate to unzip.

Even as he begins to stroke himself (slowly, this really deserves to last) his eyes never leave her. Toby is intent on drinking in every detail, from the tension in those astounding legs to the way her breasts bounce gently in time with her increasingly rapid breaths. This is the side of his wife he loves the most: passionate, fiercely independent; too often, he thinks that his involvement in her life merely tarnishes her brilliance.

Not that he spends long contemplating her brilliance, as the throaty sounds escaping from her mouth signal the impending crescendo of orgasm. From the first, slightly awkward night until now, he has never tired of those sounds. Each time a little different, the variation as thrilling as the woman herself. He's close too, overly stimulated and a little frantic despite his attempts at control.

She's always been vocal in bed, and the litany of curses and half-prayers that signal her climax is enough to send him over the edge, coming messily over his pants like an irresponsible teenager.

When he can walk again, he takes a quick detour to clean himself up. Slipping into a pair of shorts, he joins her in the bed, pressing a kiss to her forehead that doesn't cause Andy to open her eyes.

He's almost asleep when she finally speaks.

"Toby? I want a divorce."


End file.
